Awakenings
by Winam
Summary: Jane ponders over her master, the mysterious owner of Thornfield.
1. Chapter 1

_These characters are over 150 years old so they aren't mine, however much I want them to be!_

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**Awakenings**

By Winam

The rain had fallen unabated since last night and battered the casement still. Though the wind blew relentlessly – bending trees to its will, wrenching open shutters – I felt safe in the school room beside the cosy hearth. It was on days like this that I was thankful to be at Thornfield and not at Gatestead where I had warmth but not security, or Lowood where a good fire was unheard of.

Adèle's school hours having finished for the day, I only wanted a book to amuse me until tea time. There was of course plenty to read here, but none that could scarcely entertain anyone above ten years of age. Only the library held such treasures, but since Mr. Rochester returned home a fortnight ago I had been careful of when I visited that room – the library was only accessible through the study, the room my master seemed to covet.

Not that I feared Mr. Rochester, though some might think him frightful. Not in appearance or manner – he was a liberal employer, his behaviour possibly no different from any other squire – but he had not an open, cheerful countenance. Only this morning he passed me in the hallway with a scowl that would frighten the devil. He nodded distantly to me and continued on, but I paused for a moment, watching him until he descended the stairs.

What manner of dark thoughts could cause such a frown? Were his business matters so straining? Mrs. Fairfax had intimated that he had had disappointments in the past. Could that be what plagued him?

What _was_ clear was that my master was an unhappy man. His deeply-lined face affirmed that a frown had long been habitual to him, yet I knew how he looked when happy. I remembered once inadvertently saying a facetious thing that truly made him smile. The smile was wide, brilliant, with no hint of shadow – so brilliant in fact that I could not help smiling back. I sensed a gregarious character behind that gruffness, but why did he constantly suppress it?

I went downstairs to find the study vacant, but as I crossed to the library door, my eye was again caught by Mr. Rochester's extensive collection of birds, beetles – and what I liked most – butterflies. I had eyed his collection sometime ago on a previous visit to the room, had gazed with wonder at the fantastic colours and shapes of the creatures displayed there.

I glanced back at the door – the hall was silent – before approaching the display. The colourful butterflies occupied several frames and I wondered what magical places they used to inhabit, how they came to be at Thornfield. But as I examined a frame of blue butterflies I heard the sound of footsteps out in the hallway. Distinctive footsteps that I had just learned to recognise.

Footsteps that paused at the study door.


	2. Chapter 2

Rents and rates, one of the dreariest pieces of business known to man, yet like taxes it was unavoidable.

After a ghastly night helping Grace tend a restless, fiery Bertha, the prospect of being shut up in the study with my agent Tomkins did not put me in the best of moods. When I passed Miss Eyre in the hall this morning I feared that my scowl might even frighten _her_ away. But no, it only elicited an inquisitive, and I thought compassionate, glance.

By the time I showed Tomkins to the door it was long past dinner time. I ate a hasty repast in the dining room and then bolted back to my study. To find that it was already occupied.

Jane Eyre was there amongst my collection of creatures. Startled, she hastily apologised and made for the door, but I waved her back.

"Are you interested in natural history, Miss Eyre? Was your Lowood education so extensive as to include it?"

She seemed surprised, but pleased, by my questions. "Yes, we did study it a little, sir. But I am interested in nature for it is my favourite subject to paint."

"I gathered from your portfolio that you have an eye for natural beauty." I said, drawing alongside her. "Ah, I see that my butterflies have caught your fancy. Tell me, what do you think of them?"

I lifted the frame that she had been admiring and summoned her to take it from me. She did so and then examined the creatures closely, running her slender fingers over the glass. After a minute or so she handed it back to me, a quiet smile of satisfaction on her lips.

"They are beautiful, sir." she said in her forthright way, "I have always been meaning to ask you about them. Where are they from?"

Now it was I who smiled. "Direct as usual, I see! Well Miss Eyre, to satisfy your irrepressible curiosity, they come from all over the world." I explained, "For instance, I caught that orange butterfly over there in the south of France. It is called the 'peacock butterfly', after its blue and black spots – see? Just like a peacock's."

"And these blue butterflies? They must certainly come from the tropics."

"Just so. They are from all over the tropics – from India, from South America, from Australia..."

"Australia? Surely you have not travelled so far!"

"Are you implying that I am incapable of such adventures?" I jested. "As it is, I have not been to Australia, but I have a friend, an eminent scientist, who has. It was he who gave that large, blue specimen to me."

"It must have an exotic name for something so striking."

"My friend called it the 'common bluebottle'. Yes, it may sound incredulous, but he said Australia was filled with so many fantastic creatures that something as exotic as this was indeed common."

"I suppose a butterfly is insignificant compared to a… a man-sized bird for instance. But what of that large one?" she asked, pointing to a gold and black butterfly so large that it took up a quarter of the frame.

I started, and then cringed as I remembered the bitter circumstances surrounding that creature's capture.

"That giant," I sighed, "Is the Jamaican swallowtail, which I caught in the mountains of that island."

While in the middle of a rainstorm, completely enraged – having just discovered that Bertha, my wife, was mad – and that I would forever be a captive of her madness.

I dared not tell Miss Eyre that I felt like one of those butterflies. Except that I was imprisoned alive.


	3. Chapter 3

Mr. Rochester was arrested by some turbulent thought and looked away. He wiped his face fiercely, as if attempting to be rid of them. He must have had some success for the violent expression tempered down to mere annoyance in a moment. Yet his lapse did not escape me. What awful associations did that butterfly hold for him?

"You are silent." he said abruptly, "Are you not curious about this fellow, the 'old world swallowtail'?"

I wrestled my thoughts away from my master and studied the unremarkable sand and brown specimen he pointed to, preserved in its own frame.

"Humph, I see that you think it unworthy of its place in this collection."

"It is certainly plainer and smaller than the rest."

"It is also my favourite – the first butterfly I ever caught. I was but a boy when I captured it on Thornfield meadow, under the watchful eye of my tutor Mr. Trent. I have fond memories of Mr. Trent. You see, he insisted on spending our lessons out-of-doors, much to my father's annoyance. He did not stay long consequently, but long enough to teach me the most valuable lesson I have ever learned – that things aren't always as they seem – a lesson I unfortunately have not always heeded. And so it is with this butterfly – it is none so plain. Can you see the dashes of blue on the underside of its wings?"

Drawing closer to the butterfly, I indeed could make out the dabs of bright blue underneath.

"I used to study the creatures about Thornfield for hours," my master told me, "Even attempted to draw what I saw, but alas my skill as an artist never developed to my satisfaction – so I collected them instead. You however would have little trouble, though perhaps you may not wish to paint such poor subjects. Would you, for instance, care to paint this small, plain butterfly?"

By the glint in his eye, he dared me to refuse.

In reply, I looked straight at him, unflinching. "Only if you intend to keep it."

"Whatever do you mean? That I might discard or burn a work of yours?"

"Perhaps not _burn_, but discard? Yes, certainly."

"And to think I once thought that your paintings were of a quality rarely seen!"

"That they were greatly mediocre, you mean?"

He laughed, displaying the radiant smile that I longed to see. "Now you are playing with me, Miss Jane Eyre. I shall tell you directly that I would keep any work of yours, whatever your opinion of it."

"Then I will gladly accept your commission, if you would lend me the frame for a day or two."

"It is yours for as long as you wish."

I returned to the school room with my master's cherished butterfly in hand, happy to have found an occupation that would give pleasure to someone else as well as to me.

As I took out my drawing materials, I thought again of Mr. Rochester, the way that his unexpected smile made my heart skip a beat. I shook my head – I should not encourage such thoughts.

_Yet you made him happy_, I chided, _if only for an instant._

He had forgotten his troubles then, but what he truly needed was someone to confide in – he was much too isolated here at Thornfield, and isolation bred depression. It would be better for him to be amongst friends – but then he would not be here.

My spirit sank at the thought of a masterless Thornfield, gloomy and lifeless without his spark to enliven it. I did not want him to go, yet neither did I want him to suffer.

_But y__ou may be his friend._

My heart skipped another beat at the thought, but I refused to pursue it. Instead, I studied the butterfly and then began to trace its outline.

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**Not quite over yet - there's one more chapter!**


	4. Chapter 4

I had not see Jane Eyre since our talk in my study the previous day. When I inquired after her during supper I found that she had been busy nursing Adèle, who had taken to bed with a fever. On hearing this, I ordered for Carter the doctor to be summoned – it would not do to have Adèle's condition worsen.

Blast this miserable weather! It was little wonder that Adèle was ill – this bitter cold could fell the strongest constitution. My villa near Marseilles grew more attractive by the minute, and now that I had finished my business here, I was but a fortnight away from the milder climes of the Mediterranean. Only every time I thought of leaving, Jane Eyre's elfish grin would intervene, daring me to stay.

Ah, the wonder of that grin. Its recollection still produced a glow within my breast even now. A curious sensation that I had not felt in a long time – a sure sign of…

_No, it cannot be!_

Then I realised that a fortnight had already passed since I returned on that miserable evening, when Jane kindly assisted me back to my horse. Usually my time at Thornfield dragged so slowly that I was raring to mount Mesrour and gallop away for another year, but now… Now I was reluctant to leave.

How could I leave when I had just made an intriguing acquaintance – one with a ready intellect, an unarming frankness, a freshness that I had rarely seen? How could I not wish to get to know this fascinating soul, to find out how she had survived a merciless upbringing without malice or regret? No, I shall not leave just yet, though a week or two more might suffice to satisfy my curiosity.

These thoughts kept me company through my solitary supper. When I retired to the study afterwards I found that there had been a visitor in my absence. Jane had returned my little butterfly, but also placed its watercolour likeness beside it.

I drew closer to a nearby candle to examine it. The butterfly was perched on an open flower, its wings half-opened so that one could glimpse its more colourful underside. I could see that Jane had taken great care in sketching it, had blended tints that precisely match the colours of the butterfly. In my mind's eye, I could picture her at her easel, patiently wielding her brush with long, sure strokes. The result – a picture so thoughtful, understated, delicate, and alive that it captured the essence of the artist as well as the subject.

Stirred by the portrait, I went upstairs to seek out the artist. I knocked on the door of the nursery and her gentle voice bid me to enter. I opened the door – but hesitated on the threshold as I surveyed the serene scene before me.

Adèle lay fast asleep while Jane sat sewing beside her. Her eyes softened a fraction when she saw me, her face glowing in the firelight, ethereal. Disconcertingly, I felt my pulse quicken.

She bid me to close the door – I did as I was asked, and then ventured to the foot of the bed.

"How is she?" I asked brusquely.

"Better, sir." she replied calmly, "Her fever broke an hour ago and she has been sleeping well since then."

"I have summoned my doctor to come in the morning – just in case. You have not been here all day, have you?"

"No, Sophie and I have taken turns watching her. She shall take my place in an hour."

"Well – thank you – for taking care of Adèle."

"It is no trouble; she is not a difficult patient."

"Humph, you're too generous by far. First a governess, now a nurse – next you shall be running the household."

This lifted the corners of her mouth, quickening my pulse even further.

"You need not worry, sir; Mrs. Fairfax is safe from me."

"And I – I thank you for your painting – as anticipated it was beautifully done."

"I am glad you liked it, sir."

She held my gaze for one moment, her diminutive smile still on her lips. I stared, entranced – and then felt the impossible – a violent tug at my ribs.

Shaken, I bid her a rough goodnight and fled back to my study. I lit a cigar with trembling hands and inhaled deeply. Eventually my pulse slowed, but my mind remained in turmoil.

_Damn it__, Edward! Don't be such a fool!_

But was I foolish to want to forget the bitter, lonely life I had thus led – to want to love and be loved – to want to feel alive?

_It__ was foolish to seek it in a young, innocent girl under your charge_.

She _was_ innocent, and inexperienced, and pure – how I used to be before it all went wrong – what I wanted to be now. I wanted to rediscover the person I once was, to redeem myself from what I had become – and only in her presence would such redemption be possible.

_Are you sure that__ was all you wanted?_

I blocked my ears to reason, and instead thought of the spark I had seen in her eye: a spark that gave me hope.

With her face embedded in my mind, I no longer thought of the villa, but of Thornfield.

And for the first time in ten years, I dared to stay.


End file.
